| |
| LONG ago while yet the Saga’s dream-red haze | |
| Lay o’er Norway’s dales and fjords unbroken; | |
| Ere with Olaf’s cross men saw her steeples blaze, | |
| Ere their mighty iron tongues had spoken; | |
| Then the Neck, the Hulder, elves, and fairies gay | 5 |
| Wooed the summer moon with airy dance and play. | |
| But alas! they fled, | |
| As with flaming head | |
| O’er the valley shone St. Olaf’s token. | |
| |
| Thorstein Aasen was forsooth the boldest swain | 10 |
| Ever church-road trod on Sabbath morning; | |
| As a boy he fought the savage bear full fain, | |
| Spite of mother’s tears and father’s warning; | |
| Never yet was rafter for his heel too high, | |
| Haughtiest mien he fronted with unquailing eye; | 15 |
| And the rumor’s tide | |
| Bore his glory wide, | |
| Still with virtues new his name adorning. | |
| |
| Like a lingering echo from the olden time, | |
| Wondrous legends still the twilight haunted, | 20 |
| And o’er Brage’s goblet still heroic rhymes | |
| In the merry Yule-tide oft were chanted, | |
| How of Thorstein’s race had one at Necken’s will | |
| Stayed the whirl and roar of many a noisy mill; | |
| How in wild delight | 25 |
| At the fall of night | |
| He would seek the river’s gloom undaunted. | |
| |
| Late one autumn night, as wild November storms | |
| Whirled the withered leaves in frantic dances, | |
| And half-moonlit clouds of huge fantastic forms | 30 |
| Swift to horror-dreams from rapturous trances | |
| Plunged the restless earth, anon in sudden fear | |
| E’en the raging storm-wind held its breath to hear: | |
| From the river’s lair | |
| Rose a tremulous air,— | 35 |
| Rose and fell in sweetly flowing stanzas. | |
| |
| But as morn came forth with frosty splendor keen | |
| Where the birch-trees o’er the waters quiver, | |
| Found the grooms their lord with bow and violin, | |
| Ghastly staring down the brawling river. | 40 |
| To his instrument was closely pressed his ear, | |
| As if there some charméd melody to hear; | |
| In his sunken sight | |
| Shone a weird delight; | |
| But life’s mystery had flown forever! | 45 |
| |
| From that time the secret sorcery of the tone, | |
| Passed from sire to son by sure transmission, | |
| Had full oft a witching web of music thrown | |
| O’er the lonely forests of tradition; | |
| And full oft the son with pride and secret dole | 50 |
| Heard those strange vibrations in his inmost soul, | |
| Like the muffled knell | |
| Of a distant bell | |
| Fraught with dark and bodeful admonition. | |
| |
| Where the river hurls its foam-crests to the fjord, | 55 |
| There lies Torrisdell in sunshine gleaming; | |
| Oft its valiant lord ’gainst Aasen drew his sword, | |
| And the red cock crew while blood was streaming. | |
| But his daughter Birgit,—by the holy rood | |
| Ne’er a fairer maid on church or dance-croft stood!— | 60 |
| Like the glacier’s gaze | |
| In the sun’s embrace | |
| Shone her eye with tender brightness beaming. | |
| |
| And when Thorstein Aasen saw that lily maid | |
| On her palfrey white on church-road riding, | 65 |
| Aye his heart beat loud, and fierce defiance bade | |
| To ancestral feuds their hearts dividing, | |
| And young Birgit, the fair maid of Torrisdell, | |
| Little cared or strove that rising flame to quell; | |
| For, ere spring new-born | 70 |
| Did the fields adorn, | |
| Him she pledged her word and faith abiding. | |
| |
| Loud then swore her angry sire with mead aglow, | |
| (Deadly hate was in his visage painted,) | |
| Rather would he see his daughter’s red blood flow, | 75 |
| Than with shame his ancient scutcheon tainted. | |
| In her lonesome bower then fair Birgit lay, | |
| Wept and prayed by night and prayed and wept by day; | |
| O’er her features pale | |
| Crept a death-like veil; | 80 |
| With her waning hopes her heart had fainted. | |
| |
| But when winter came and merry Christmas-tide, | |
| Birgit’s sire her wedding torches lighted; | |
| Out his varlets rode through seven valleys wide, | |
| Far and near to bridal-feast invited. | 85 |
| For that lily sweet with summer’s fervor blest | |
| Must its blossom waste on winter’s snowy breast,— | |
| To a hoary swain, | |
| Kalf of Nordarstein, | |
| Torrisdell’s fair maid her troth had plighted. | 90 |
| |
| Sooth a goodly feast he gave, the doughty lord; | |
| Through the halls shone ninety torches blazing. | |
| Forward bent in flight, stood on the bending board— | |
| As upon their trail the hounds were chasing— | |
| Stag and hind; and through the wide-flung doors | 95 |
| Poured the noisy throng like breakers on the shores. | |
| But in silent gloom | |
| With her hoary groom, | |
| Sat the bride on all that splendor gazing. | |
| |
| Seven days they feasted all that lusty throng | 100 |
| In the midnight flush of bright December: | |
| On the seventh eve the bride with play and song | |
| Burst in glory forth from out her chamber. | |
| For the last time now she stood there silver-crowned; | |
| Strove to feign good cheer, while tears her accents drowned; | 105 |
| Then an awful cry | |
| Shook the rafters high, | |
| “Birgit Torrisdell,” it said, “remember!” | |
| |
| Open flew the doors: there fell a silence dread; | |
| In sprang Thorstein bounding to the rafter, | 110 |
| Round he swung a flaming torch above his head | |
| Till a trail of blood-red sparks flew after. | |
| “Birgit!” cried he,—“Birgit!” but about the bride | |
| Clung the affrighted women close on every side. | |
| “Come, my beauteous elf, | 115 |
| Hast thou hid thyself?” | |
| And he whirled the torch with frantic laughter. | |
| |
| Hark!—then trembling chords as on the night-wind blown | |
| Came with fitful throbs and weird vibration; | |
| Quickly stayed he, shuddered, and his wild eye shone | 120 |
| With a restless, strange illumination; | |
| And as eager falcon darts upon his prey, | |
| Seized a violin and straight began to play. | |
| Up then springs in haste | |
| Every drowsy guest, | 125 |
| Smitten with the tone’s intoxication. | |
| |
| As the fifth stroke fell, then quaked the lofty roof, | |
| Quaked the tottering walls too that upbore it, | |
| Wild and wilder danced the rout, and hurled aloof | |
| Torches, tables, benches, all before it. | 130 |
| Ninth,—and lo, as if the horror-laden deep | |
| Burst its gnawing chains of long-enforcéd sleep, | |
| Hid in midnight’s shroud | |
| Shrieked the doom-fraught cloud, | |
| As the wrathful storm-wind beat and tore it. | 135 |
| |
| Fierce with stifled hissing came the tenth accord, | |
| While the tempest blew its strain sonorous; | |
| Down the hungry heavens swooped upon the fjord, | |
| And our world was gloom beneath and o’er us. | |
| Off was hurled the roof; by maddening frenzy caught, | 140 |
| Wild with glaring eyes the guests together fought, | |
| And like angry hosts | |
| Of appalling ghosts | |
| Joined the tempest’s terror-haunted chorus. | |
| |
| Densely and more densely rolled the waves of gloom, | 145 |
| Everywhere above them and around them: | |
| Onward rushed the player and the guests of doom, | |
| Making midnight blacker where it found them. | |
| On and ever onward, over land and sea, | |
| In the darksome clouds the hapless dancers flee, | 150 |
| Till the last sound died | |
| In the sullen tide, | |
| And the tempest’s roar in distance drowned them. | |
| |
| Centuries have faded, and the kindly earth | |
| Hides the mouldering beams of Birgit’s bower; | 155 |
| But the dooméd dancers still with frantic mirth | |
| Breast the tempest and the midnight’s power. | |
| And full oft the peasant from his hearthstone warm | |
| Hears those fitful notes, that bode the coming storm, | |
| And his mirth will die | 160 |
| In a pitying sigh | |
| At the fate of Torrisdell’s fair flower. | |
| |
